The two scurried off together.  Brooks and his companion passed on.

“It is just this,” Brooks said, in a low tone, “just the thought of these people makes me afraid, positively afraid to argue with Henslow.  You see—­he may be right.  I tell you that in a healthily-governed country there should be work for every man who is able and willing to work.  And in England there isn’t.  Free Trade works out all right logically, but it’s one thing to see it all on paper, and it’s another to see this—­here around us—­and Medchester isn’t the worst off by any means.”

Bullsom was silent for several moments.

“I tell you what it is, Brooks,” he said.  “I’ll send another hundred to the Unemployed Fund to-night.”

“It’s generous of you, Mr. Bullsom,” the young lawyer answered.  “You’ll never regret it.  But look here.  There’s a greater responsibility even than feeding these poor fellows resting upon us to-day.  They don’t want our charity.  They’ve an equal right to live with us.  What they want, and what they have a right to, is just legislation.  That’s where we come in.  Politics isn’t a huge joke, or the vehicle for any one man’s personal ambition.  We who interest ourselves, however remotely, in them, impose upon ourselves a great obligation.  We’ve got to find the truth.  That’s why I hesitate to say anything against Henslow’s new departure.  We’re off the track now.  I want to hear all that Henslow has to say.  We must not neglect a single chance whilst that terrible cry is ever in our ears.”

They parted at the tram terminus, Mr. Bullsom taking a car for his suburban paradise.  As usual, he was the centre of a little group of acquaintances.

“And how goes the election, Bullsom?” some one asked him.

Mr. Bullsom was in no hurry to answer the question.  He glanced round the car, collecting the attention of those who might be supposed interested.

“I will answer that question better,” he said, “after the mass meeting on Saturday night.  I think that Henslow’s success or failure will depend on that.”

“Got something up your sleeve, eh?” his first questioner remarked.

“Maybe,” Mr. Bullsom answered.  “Maybe not.  But apart from the immediate matter of this election, I can tell you one thing, gentlemen, which may interest you.”

He paused.  One thumb stole towards the armhole of his waistcoat.  He liked to see these nightly companions of his hang upon his words.  It was a proper and gratifying tribute to his success as a man of affairs.

“I have just left,” he said, “our future Member.”

The significance of his speech was not immediately apparent.

“Henslow!  Oh, yes.  Committee meeting this afternoon, wasn’t it?” some one remarked.

“I do not mean Henslow,” Mr. Bullsom replied.  “I mean Kingston Brooks.”

The desired sensation was apparent.

“Why, he’s your new agent, isn’t he?”